Chapter 25 #2
I watch Caroline as she struggles to come to grips with this realization and regain her composure. I almost feel sorry for her. “I’m so sorry, Luca. I’m so sorry for everything my father might’ve done to protect or to nurse his injured pride. This has gotten horribly out of hand.”
“Indeed it has, but we’ll get to the bottom of it,” I say. “You just need to keep your head up and go on with your life as if all is normal. Victor and I will look into the Mayfair issue in the meantime.”
“Will you at least tell Valentina I’m worried about her and hope that she’s okay?”
“I will; I promise,” I say.
Though I’m not sure whether she’ll be all that receptive to me. She’s angry and hurt, but I can’t stand to be away from her. I can only hope that what I do next will bring us closer and to a better conclusion.
Mayfair is mostly a residential neighborhood with century-old townhouses and sprawling back gardens.
There are cameras on every street corner and a highly dedicated local police force.
It’s the kind of neighborhood where kids can safely play out in the streets in the summer, and the nearby park is well lit and perfect for runners and families alike.
It’s about as posh and clean as a Chicago neighborhood has to offer in terms of high-rent residences, aside from the Gold Coast. It’s also the last place I imagined would harbor one of Mauro Mancuso’s illicit safe houses.
“It’s eerily quiet,” Victor mutters.
We’re sitting in my car, parked across the street from the address Caroline gave us, looking at a beautiful two-story home with a brick facade and white-framed windows.
Flowers hang from pots on the sills, and marble angels decorate the pathway connecting the front porch to the gate and the sidewalk.
“There’s something lurking beneath the surface, though,” I tell him. “What do we know about the documented ownership of this place?”
“A Dario Amato bought it five years ago,” Victor says, going over the files on his phone. “Amato was a close associate of Mancuso’s. He used to run the real estate division for RDL Incorporated, a shell company opened by another Mancuso lieutenant, Daniel Angelli.”
“So, it’s definitely Mancuso’s,” I conclude.
He nods slowly. “Yes.”
“Look at the driveway,” I say.
“The place is supposed to be empty,” he says.
But it’s not. A luxury-edition Mercedes is parked in the driveway, and there is movement in the house through the ground floor and the upper floor windows.
“Go through the glove compartment. There should be a pair of binoculars,” I tell Victor. Once he gets them for me, I set the zoom lenses to give me a better view of the upper-floor windows.
Victor keeps an eye on the mailman as he stops to deliver an envelope to their mailbox.
“What are you looking for exactly?” he asks me.
“I’m hoping to see a familiar face or at least get a clearer idea about their movements inside the house before I consider breaching it,” I reply. “I’ll have Solomon take over later with a team of his own. I want an overnight stakeout so we can build a full pattern first.”
“So far, no one’s come in or out, and we’ve been here for almost an hour.”
The lights come on in one of the bedrooms. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is already dropping beyond the western skyline, turning it vivid shades of red and pink. A figure moves behind a lacy curtain.
“There are at least two people inside,” I tell him, moving the view over to the other windows.
“Three. One’s on the ground floor, watching TV.
I can see the lights from the screen flashing.
There’s another one moving between floors at regular intervals, likely patrol.
The third one’s in the northwestern bedroom. ”
“We’ve got movement,” Victor says. “Front door.”
I check the living room first and notice the man I saw in there earlier is gone. It has to be the one stepping out. He’s a big, burly guy, wearing a black turtleneck and loose-fitting jeans. He has a square jaw and a thick neck. His crew cut tells me everything I need to know about him.
“Security detail,” I reply.
We both watch him as he walks to the mailbox, carefully looking left and right before opening it.
He can’t see us where we’re positioned, given my choice of a more neighborhood-friendly luxury vehicle with tinted windows for this particular mission.
His gaze lingers on my car for a moment, but I trust that the baby-on-board sticker will dispel any suspicion.
Indeed it does, and he opens the mailbox. He takes out an envelope, checks it, then takes it back into the house.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I use the binoculars again to analyze the situation.
“The guy in the bedroom’s coming downstairs. They’re all in the living room now.”
“The letter must be how they’re communicating with the outside,” Victor surmises. “It’s one way to stay off the radar, especially if the mailman is paid off.”
“Didn’t we have someone working at the USPS?”
“Donny. Yes.”
“Have him look into it. Get us details on the mailman assigned to this neighborhood. Have him check his financials and whatnot,” I reply, then pause when someone pulls the window curtain aside to look out into the street. “Shit.”
My stomach drops.
His face is clear, so painfully clear. It’s impossible to confuse him with anyone else.
I could lie to myself and say I’m imagining it, but I’m not.
It’s real. He’s real. The jawline, the hazel eyes, the dark hair and the suspicious eyebrow.
He’s wearing a grey sweatshirt, which gives him a boyish appearance despite his age, but it’s him.
“What is it?” Victor asks.
“It’s him,” I whisper. “Stefano.”
“You’re serious?”
I wish I could tell him it’s just a bad joke. It’s not.
That is definitely my brother hiding in one of Mancuso’s secret safe houses, smack in the heart of Mayfair, accompanied by a security detail of his own. He looks worried and stressed, but it’s Stefano alright, and the realization hits me like a punch in the gut.
I feel anguish and relief at the same time. Anguish that he’s been hiding from me, yet relief that he’s still alive.
“Luca, you need to calm down first,” Victor begs me before I storm into the Dandelion Spa & Massage Therapy Center, furious and determined to find Caroline and confront her about this. But he’s too late.
My blood boils and my heart races for a finish line that yields nothing but misery and confusion. Every muscle in my body feels rigid with tension.
I need to punch a wall or break somebody’s face.
“Luca,” Victor tries again, struggling to keep up with me.
“I’ve got this,” I tell him.
We walk past the reception desk. The nice lady in pale yellow sits up to greet me, but I know where to find Caroline. I know what she does when she comes to this place. Which room, which services.
“Excuse me, sir!” the receptionist calls out.
“I’m sorry, miss,” Victor tries to diffuse the situation. “We’re just here to speak to someone, that’s all.”
“But you can’t go in there without a…”
Her voice trails off somewhere behind me as I dive straight into a maze of dimly lit corridors with burnt orange walls and white doors, a variety of floral scents fill my nostrils.
Victor’s footsteps echo behind me, louder and louder as he catches up.
The anger in my chest becomes impossible to contain, and when I see the door at the end of the hallway, I lose my grip altogether.
I swing it open to find Caroline on her back on a treatment table. The cosmetic therapist gasps and pulls back, clutching a facial cleaning device with suddenly trembling hands.
“What are you doing in here?” she croaks.
Caroline sits up, wrapped in a white bathrobe. She looks terribly confused. “What the hell is going on?” She pauses upon recognizing me and blinks in shock. “Luca, what’s wrong?”
“Out,” I tell the therapist.
“Excuse me, you can’t just barge in here—”
“Get the fuck out right now!” I bark, and she gets the message.
Caroline smiles apologetically and waits for her to leave the room, then throws her bare legs over the bed to turn and look at me.
“Did you know?” I ask Caroline.
“Know what?” she asks, her eyes wide with confusion.
Victor finally catches up. “For God’s sake, Luca.”
“Caroline,” I ask again, “did you know?”
“Know what?”
“He’s alive,” I say.